Croissants and Jam (5 page)

    ‘You’re
hateful,
you’re
a bastard and you never think about me.’

Every
you’re
emphasised with a sharp red fingernail pointing dangerously at my face that I feared for my sight, while punctuating
bastard
with a stamp of her foot. I’m a bastard? I’m hateful? All I did was move my flight back. It was just my luck that my decision collided with her impending period.

    ‘I wanted us to travel to Rome together,’ she had pouted.

    ‘I’ll be there a few hours after you. I have to go over these legal papers before I leave. It’s one of those things.’

    ‘That bloody lawsuit. It’s all you ever bloody talk about. I suffer all the time because of it. I still don’t understand why you didn’t change both our flights. Honestly, you’re such a tight bastard.’

    ‘You know it is stupidly extravagant to change both. I had no choice. Get over it.’

Of course, she had flounced out saying she would die rather than spend time with my family anyway and she won’t be coming. No sooner had I arrived at the solicitors she had texted to say she had changed her mind. Women. Surely life would be more bearable without them. Now, I have gone and burdened myself with this stuck-up, bad tempered, designer-obsessed madam. Will I never learn? She is a real weirdo with all that herbal dependency. A good glass of wine would do her the world of good if you ask me. She is now looking hopefully at me.

    ‘Right, let’s see if we can hire a car or something,’ I say pleasantly while wondering what the hell I have let myself in for.

Chapter Five

    ‘Is this all they have?’ I stare miserably at the dented, sad-looking car which seems to reflect my own despair. The rental guy gawps at my bum and proceeds to stroke the bonnet.

    ‘It is good car. I let you have for low price.’ He licks his lips and I swear he dribbles.

My companion, who is lying on the floor, seemingly unconcerned about the Marc Jacob jumper but very concerned about the exhaust, ignores him. I sigh heavily.

    ‘Well?’ I ask, and get a grunt in return. He slides out from under the car and lifts the bonnet, much to my irritation.   

    ‘What are you doing?’ I ask, trying to keep the irritation from my voice.

He lifts his head to look at me and bangs it on the bonnet.

    ‘Damn. I am checking the engine, what do you think I am doing?’ he replies impatiently.

    ‘But, this car is terrible. We can’t take this,’ I retort exasperated.

    ‘It is actually a classic.

    ‘A classic piece of junk,’ I argue.

He shakes his head.

    ‘This is the third rental company we have tried and so far this is the only car available.’ He slams down the bonnet, strides past me, yanks open the door and plays with the gears and steering wheel. I try hard not to grit my teeth. I look to the sales guy who winks lecherously at me. Jesus Christ, how did I ever get into this situation?

    ‘I’m not paying the price you are asking, even with what you say you will take off, it is still too much,’ he says.

What is he doing? I can’t believe I am hearing this.

    ‘You’re not taking this, surely?’ I say, struggling to keep the panic out of my voice. What will Simon’s parents think if I arrive in this?

He ignores me. The salesman scratches his head and mumbles something in French which Marc Jacob jumper seems to understand.

    ‘Another five per cent and we will take it,’ he barters.

Please tell me I am not hearing this. Please let there be another car. The deal is seemingly done and with a smile the man hands over the keys.

    ‘Oh no, you cannot possibly be serious,’ I groan.

He nods.

    ‘I agree, the last thing we want is a lemon, but if it’s all they’ve got, we don’t have a great deal of choice,’ he replies, kicking the tyre.

    ‘
A lemon
, what does that mean? It looks like scrap metal to me.’

    ‘A Citroën, you know
Citron?’
he laughs, over-pronouncing the French. ‘Great colour, you must admit,’ he says kicking the other tyre.

Great colour? Is he totally off his rocker? Who in their right mind would buy an egg-yolk-yellow coloured car?

    ‘Well, I am glad you’re amused but I can’t arrive for dinner in this,’ I protest. ‘It only has two doors.’

    ‘How many doors do you need? Come on, this is a classic. Look a sunroof too.’ He lifts the plastic and I watch horrified as it tears in his hands. ‘You will arrive with your hair blowing in the breeze,’ he laughs again.

    ‘This thing probably won’t even get us ten miles,’ I say miserably.

    ‘Kilometres not miles. Come on be positive, I bought it for next to nothing,’ he says with a satisfied grin.

I look at him horror-stricken and then at the yellow piece of junk in front of me.

    ‘Are you telling me, you have just
bought
this pile of junk? Are you totally nuts?’ The words are strangled out of me. Jesus, we can’t even hire another car now.

    ‘Well, you didn’t believe for one minute that he could hire this car out did you? You must have led a sheltered life. It’s a fantastic bargain, an original classic French Citroën CV2.’

Like I know, or even care what the hell that is. He smiles, slides on his sunglasses and strikes a pose next to the Citroën. I roll my eyes and shake my head. My God, he is like a child with a new toy. My whole future hangs on this car, Jesus, what a suicidal thought. What the arsing head and hole is wrong with this guy? Has he no comprehension of the importance of my dinner? The sodding car is prehistoric. I decide to stand my ground.

    ‘I am not getting in that thing. There is no way I can arrive in Rome for dinner in that,’ I say resolutely.

The car gives a loud creak as he pulls the door open.

    ‘Well, I can. I hate to burst your bubble but I don’t think you are going to make that all-important dinner now, but if you want to get to Rome, get in and stop moaning. If not, it was nice knowing you,’ he says flippantly and proceeds to get into the goddamn thing without me. Bugger it. I so hate this guy.

    ‘It doesn’t even have central locking,’ I say appalled, wondering what else must be lacking in this useless piece of junk.

He bursts out laughing.

    ‘You are seriously unbelievable. This car is wicked.’

Knowing I have no choice if I want to get to Rome at all, I reluctantly walk around the car to the open door, ignoring his look.

    ‘What are you doing?’ He blocks my way with his arm.

Oh Jesus, what now?

    ‘I am getting in the car. You just told me to get in the car didn’t you?’ I retort between gritted teeth.

    ‘Yes, but preferably in the passenger side, unless you are planning on driving, and I have to say frankly, I am not too comfortable with that.’

Shit, wrong sodding side. I twirl around without a word and fiddle with the handle on the other door. It doesn’t bloody open. He sighs, walks around and pulls it open for me. I carefully place the duty-free and my laptop in the back and grimace at the odd fishy smell that emanates from inside the car. I watch as he pays. Well, he can think again if he thinks he is getting any money out of me. He gets in beside me and, against my better judgement, I find myself thinking that the jumper actually doesn’t look so bad on him after all, in fact, maybe even better than on Simon. After several tries, and a few hiccups the engine splutters into life. God, it sounds terrible.

    ‘Is it supposed to sound like this?’ I ask without thinking.

    ‘Like what?’ he asks while fiddling with the knobs on the dashboard. Jesus, the guy is in love with the goddamn thing.

    ‘Like my mother’s sewing machine.’

He hands me a map which I unfold as we jolt out of the car park. He crunches the gears and I sigh heavily.

    ‘We need the N71,’ he instructs.

I struggle to find the N71 on the map while discreetly moving my knee away from his. The car surges forward and I give an involuntary cry.

        ‘Is there a problem?’

You are the problem arsehole. He grinds the gears again, and I feel an overwhelming urge to jump from the car.

    ‘Yes, there is a problem. Don’t you know how to drive?’ I quickly put my seat belt on and look at the map.

    ‘I have to get used to the gears, where am I going?’

    ‘God knows,’ I retort crisply.

    ‘Read the map woman.’ He flaps at the map with his hand.

Oh this insufferable man.

    ‘Damn, it’s there,’ he shouts, and I look to see what
is
there. Car horns blare at us as we shoot across the road. I close my eyes and scream.

    ‘Shit, what are you doing?’ I shout and instinctively push my foot onto a brake pedal, which is of course, not there. My hand grabs the side of my seat and I clench my jaw. The car bumps, shudders and then surges forward onto the motorway.

    ‘I am getting us onto the N71, now can you read the map and stop swearing. By the way, your language is atrocious, where are you from, the East End of London or something?’

I am speechless. What an arsehole. I make the decision to speak to him only when it is really necessary. I fumble with the map. He seems totally unaware of me and is removing his sunglasses. I sneak a quick look at his face and am struck by his handsome features. He needs a shave, but somehow even I have to admit he is rather appealing. The laughter lines around his eyes are a clear indication he laughs a lot. I find myself glancing down to his firm thighs again and imagine, like Simon, he works out regularly.

    ‘Surrey, actually, some distance from the East End in fact,’ I say softly.

I am not sure if he has heard me as at that moment his mobile bleeps. For a second I could swear his face clouded over but he is back to normal in no time.

    ‘Here, can you check that text for me.’

I stare at the iPhone he is holding out to me.

    ‘I can’t read your messages,’ I say moving further into my seat.

He groans.

    ‘In case you haven’t noticed I am attempting to drive us to Rome, I can only drive. I can’t read maps and text messages at the same time. I am not a Swiss Army Knife you know. I am relying on you for that and, so far, you haven’t done very well.’

Bloody hell, that is it, I am not taking any more of this guy’s shit.

    ‘That is so unfair. I am reading your sodding map…’

    ‘Oh sure you are, that is why I had to nearly kill us to get onto the N71,’ he interrupts rudely.

God I am so close to hitting him.

    ‘Don’t blame your bad driving on my map reading. Bloody hell, you are sodding unbelievable.’

    ‘I am unbelievable, ha! So far I have done everything in my power to get us to Rome and so far you have done everything in your power to make it as difficult as possible. Notice, I do not need to swear. So, do we need this road that is coming up?’

I find myself staring uncomprehendingly at him.

    ‘I don’t think you have any idea what I do or who I am,’ I say trying to muster up some confidence.

    ‘No, quite right, no idea whatsoever and no inclination to know, but I would like to know if we need this road that is coming up or should I stay on the motorway?’ he says evenly looking ahead.

    ‘What, oh shit.’ I unravel the map again and see that we need the N274.

    ‘And she swears again,’ he sighs.

I ignore his sarcastic comment and strain to see the signs. Bugger, where is the N274? How can he possibly expect me to read this map? It’s a French map for goodness sake.

    ‘Oh oh, quick, we need the third exit on this roundabout,’ I stammer.

    ‘Ah, come on woman what are you doing?’ He swerves in front of another car and I close my eyes. I feel sure my life flashed before me as the car spins round.

I hear him sigh.

    ‘Okay, I managed to take the third exit, now just tell me where am I heading?’

    ‘To hell, I hope,’ I mumble.   

    ‘The N27 should be coming up, we need that I think,’ I say aloud, waving the map in front of him hoping he will check.

He nods and hands me the phone, which I meekly take. I scroll into the text messages and see the message is from a Claudine.

    ‘Do you want me to read it?’ I ask hesitantly.

He turns and gives me a cross look. I let out an audible sigh and open the text. Oh God, I can’t read this, can I? I feel a strange sensation when I realise there is a woman in his life and not just any woman, from the tone of the text. My God, am I feeling jealous? Don’t be stupid Bels. You are just surprised that any woman could feel anything for such a moron.

    ‘
It’s from Claudine. You really want me to read this?’

He sighs. Right, he asked for it.

    ‘Darling, why haven’t you texted me? It has been hours now. I thought at least from the airport you would have been in touch. Hope to speak soon, miss you so much already and can’t wait to….’

I feel myself blushing. He is rubbing his eye and I am wondering if he is even listening.

    ‘
Snoozy woozy you,
’ I finish. ‘Oh and there is a kiss.’

He does not flinch.

    ‘There is an N274 coming up, signposted
Voie Georges Pompidou
, is that the one?’

I realise I am staring open-mouthed at him and quickly look back to the map.

    ‘Erm, yes, that is the one and then we want the A39.’

He nods and puts the phone back in his pocket. I bite my lip trying to hold back the words that are fighting for release, fail miserably and blurt out.

    ‘Snoozy woozy, I mean, what are you, like six years old or something?’

I see his eyebrows rise and the muscle of his cheek twitch. Still, at least he has had
a
text which is more than I have had. I can’t understand why Kaz has not rung back or even texted me. I lean down and fumble in my handbag for my phone, except my hand gropes around clutching at thin air. Shit, there is no handbag. Oh shit again. I look to the backseat where my laptop sits cosily next to my duty-free bag. Treble shit, I must have left my handbag at the airport. Oh dear God, if you do exist, please send me the right words to use. Now my life is definitely not going to be worth living. I shan’t need to jump from the car as he will probably just shove me out of it. Terrible visions of a dirty youth buying drugs with my credit card make me shudder. Come on Bels, drug dealers don’t accept credit cards. Oh no, and how would you know that? I answer myself. The same dirty youth is probably trying to sell your Blackberry right now. Oh God this is awful, my whole life is in the organiser on that phone. In fact, my whole wedding is on my Blackberry. How could I have been so stupid? My stomach turns over and I feel sick when I remember that my passport is also in there and oh, God, my Kalms and bugger, my contraceptive pill. Oh bugger it. How the hell do I get more if the bag is not there when I go back? I can’t possibly ask Simon’s mother. Only I could lose my contraceptive pill while heading into a Catholic country where just being in possession of them will have my cards marked as a modern day Mary Magdalene. What am I to do? I can’t possibly refuse Simon on our wedding night. The chances of my getting pregnant then are growing by the minute.